


To Be Delivered In The Event Of My Death

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Paternal Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Last Will And Testament Of Gregory Christopher Lestrade there is a footnote that indicates that upon his death, a letter should be delivered to one Sherlock Holmes. This is that letter. Paternal!Lestrade, no slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Delivered In The Event Of My Death

**Author's Note:**

> It helps if you read this as a companion piece to my 'What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade'. (http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8104479/1/What-You-Dont-Know-About-Greg-Lestrade) The Accident is an incident in which Lestrade took a bullet for Sherlock and, as a result, became temporarily paralyzed from the waist down.

Dear Sherlock.

If you're reading this, it means I'm probably dead. That's okay. I've had a good life. But there's a couple things I want to say to you. I'll keep it short, because we both know you hate sentiment. I'd hope you know all this anyways.

Just so you know, half my money is going to boys homes and stuff. Everything else – and I do mean everything, you get all my crap too – is all yours. Buy yourself something nice. On me. If you've got use for a huge DVD collection and a bunch of comic books, great. If not, you can donate them or something. I'm not sure what I want done with that guitar. Sell it, I guess. Give it to a school. Burn it as firewood. I don't care. It's up to you.

I'm going to tell you something you already know, even though I've never told you before in your life. You know everything about me. I wish I knew you half that well. But that's okay. Here's the thing, Sherlock, I'm sterile. I can't have kids. It's not because of the accident. Paraplegia – sometimes it does it to you. But it's not that. I was just born like this. I don't work right.

For awhile, I didn't know. I've always wanted kids. Ever since I was a kid. We tried for a year and a half, me and her. She wanted kids too, you know. But.. it never worked.

I cried for a really long time when I found out. We went to a doctor, right, and he told me. That I was wrong. I went home and I locked myself in the bathroom. I don't know how long I cried. It was awhile. I just – it ruined me. I don't know if you've ever felt like that. Like your heart's really broken. I hope you never have to. It gets inside your head. Knowing that you're broken. That you're not made right. You start feeling like you're a failure. That you're just...wrong. 

I cried for a long time. Hours and hours. And then, eventually, I had to get up and move on. And I did. It got better, a bit. But it doesn't leave you. That feeling. I never really got over it. I cried for weeks, for months, years. Sometimes I still cry about it. Have you ever wanted something so bad, it just hurt? Everything hurt. I had names for them, the kids I never had. I knew what they looked like, and what colour their bedroom was painted, and where they went to school. I dreamed about them. Sometimes I'd dream I was a dad and then I'd wake up and I'd be alone in the house. I've never wanted something so much as I wanted children. It was just hard.

And then you came along. Do you remember that day we met? In the tunnel. I gave you my jacket, you solved me a case. You told me everything about my whole life from that jacket. Do you remember that? And then, just like that I had a son. You've always been a son to me, Sherlock, always. I took care of you, and you took care of me.

I stopped dreaming. I started living. The things you see, Sherlock, they're just beautiful. All the little hidden things in the world, that no one else ever notices. You can. It's amazing. You're amazing. I don't think anyone's ever told you that enough, so I want you to know now. You're amazing, Sherlock Holmes. And I am so so proud of you.

You've done so much, saved so many people, solved so many cases. You made me so much happier. Better. Stronger. You did so much for me, and I owe you so much. You were right. I need you. I've always needed you.

I'm getting sentimental, I know. Put up with me. I'm dead.

The day I met you – it was the best day of my life. I want you to know that. I remember sitting on rooftops with you, smoking, and I remember when we went through hell and back trying to quit. And it was wonderful, because you were there. Everything we've ever done together. All those cases, running after you. I remember holding onto you during that god-awful detox, and I remember you holding my hands and helping me walk when I had to learn all over again. I remember crying because you wrote me that lovely song on the violin. I want you to know that I love you so much, and that I always have. You're the best man I've ever known, and ever will.

I want you to know that the accident wasn't your fault. I want you to know that I would take a bullet for you any day of the week, no matter the consequences. That's what fathers are for, Sherlock. I promised myself I would protect you no matter what, for the rest of my life. I hope I've made good of that promise.

I love you, kid. And I am so so proud of you. Thanks for everything you've given me. Thanks for being my son. And I just want you to know that if I died protecting you, I was doing my job. I want you to know that if I died in your name, there could be no more honourable way for me to die.

Be good.

Greg Lestrade.


End file.
